Pi sucks in a deep breath. “I . . . we’ve had a few thoughts.”
I stare at him and try to pretend I’ve been involved in these thoughts since their conception.
“What if we didn’t sub Harry for Mathias? What if we subbed Riley for fly-half instead?” Pi says.
It feels as though someone has turned the volume of the pitch right down. No one in our little cluster of four seems to be breathing.
Abs is Pi’s best friend. Abs always subs for fly-half. That’s what he’s been training for since birth. Pi would really throw his buddy under the bus like that and leave him benched for an entire game? A game in which we’re walking the win.
“Hear us out,” Pi says. Us. Not me. “Riley can kick. I know he’s young, but he’s got the potential to be the next Mathias Jones if given the chance to prove it. I’m certain of it. And I’ve always thought Harry’s too . . . scrappy for fly-half. Not too scrappy, that’s the wrong choice of word, but he has other talents that lend themselves better to another position. Let’s put him on, but as scrum-half.”
Eksteen raises a brow and “Hmms” to himself. He rubs his fingers over his mouth, which, for anyone who’s known him long enough, means he’s actually giving considerable thought to it. “So, we pull Darby?”
Pi doesn’t answer. He discretely elbows me.
“Uh . . . yeah. Save him for Bristol,” I add. I squeeze Pi’s hip three times in quick succession.
The movement is clocked by Dan, who catches my eye. He holds contact for a few seconds, then looks to Eksteen, who’s still massaging his chin.
“Who are we playing for Chelford?” he asks, looking at me, making it clear I’m the one who should answer.
I attempt to pick Pi’s brain through telepathy. Who would he choose? There are more forwards on the bench than backs, which is standard, and any of them could fill the slot.
“Alfie.” I try not to say it like a question, but I feel Pi heave a relieved sigh beside me. I chose correctly.
Alfie’s the youngest, but he’s also the biggest and has spent a lot of time with Dan specifically training as a prop.
Eksteen is still humming, still working through his thoughts. “This idea is coming from both of you?”
“Of course,” Pi says, but once again Eksteen’s only looking at me, as though he can see through it all.
“No, it’s not. We’ve got to be honest here,” I reply.
Pi shoots me a“What the hell are you doing?”look.
“If it turns out good, and works out as planned, it was all my idea from the very beginning. If it all goes to shit, it was entirely Pi’s doing.”
Eksteen laughs. Humour has always been the way to crack that man. I wink at Pi, and Dan smirks to himself.
“Time to deliver your pep talks then, boys,” Dan says, slapping a hand down onto my shoulder.
Halfway through the second half, it feels like our gamble is paying off. We’ve definitely noticed a drop in performance without Gadget or Dan, but we’ve still scored another two tries, taking Pi up to a hat trick. We’re leading sixty-one to fourteen. Abs keeps trying to line up in the wrong place, but after he gets called a stupid wanker a few times, he picks it up.
Unsurprisingly, Harry’s already mastered the box kick, and his preternaturally combative nature is perfect for this new position. He’s like my mum’s venomous Jack Russell, Gristle—small, aggressive, tenacious, and with something to prove. He’ll go straight for the jugular and won’t let go until that ball is in our possession.
Riley is incredibly fast and hasn’t missed either of his conversions, and Alfie is nervous but eager, and it all feels like it’s falling into place.
There’s a Ravens knock-on, and the Cents are awarded a scrum. I fucking love a good scrum. I’m singing The Ting Tings “That’s Not My Name” as we get into position.
“Crouch!” the ref yells.
I wedge my head between Alfie and Snatch, loop one arm around Alfie’s enormous thigh and the other over Hughes, the other lock.
“Bind!”
We squeeze out any last gaps between us. Create one foreboding, infallible beast.
“Set!”
